My chest tightened, the way it does when your body senses a threat before your mind understands it.
“What did you find,” I asked.
There was a pause, then a breath drawn.
“A small packet with pills, and a plastic card that looks like a hotel key. We did not touch anything more than necessary.”
For a moment, I could not speak. My thoughts scattered, searching for explanations that might soften what I was hearing, but none of them felt real enough to hold onto.
“Are you sure it belongs to him,” I finally asked.
“Yes,” she replied quickly. “His name is stitched inside the shirt.”
I drove back to the cleaners without remembering the route, my hands tight on the wheel, my mind racing ahead to conclusions I did not yet want to claim. Inside, the woman slid a clear bag across the counter, her eyes avoiding mine. Inside were several white tablets and a hotel key card marked with the logo of Seabrook Harbor Hotel.
Something inside me went very still. Tucked against the plastic was a folded piece of paper, creased and faded from the wash but still legible. The handwriting was unmistakable.
“Thursday. Same place. Do not tell anyone.”
